John Hilton reflected deeply. “I should like to get me some good yellow-turnip seed to plant late. I ain’t more’n satisfied with what I’ve been gettin’ o’ late years o’ Ira Speed. An’ I’m goin’ to provide me with a good hoe; mine’s gettin’ wore out an’ all shackly. I can’t seem to fix it good.”

“Them’s excuses,” observed Mrs. Hilton, with friendly tolerance. “You just cover up the hoe with somethin’, if you get it—I would. Ira Speed’s so jealous he’ll remember it of you this twenty year, your goin’ an’ buyin’ a new hoe o’ anybody but him.”

“I’ve always thought ’twas a free country,” said John Hilton, soberly. “I don’t want to vex Ira neither; he favours us all he can in trade. ’Tis difficult for him to spare a cent, but he’s as honest as daylight.”

At this moment there was a sudden sound of young voices, and a pair of young figures came out from the shadow of the woods into the moonlighted open space. An old cock crowed loudly from his perch in the shed, as if he were a herald of royalty. The little girls were hand in hand, and a brisk young dog capered about them as they came.

“Wa’n’t it dark gittin’ home through the woods this time o’ night?” asked the mother, hastily, and not without reproach.

“I don’t love to have you gone so late; mother an’ me was timid about ye, and you’ve kep’ Mis’ Becker’s folks up, I expect,” said their father, regretfully. “I don’t want to have it said that my little girls ain’t got good manners.”

“The teacher had a party,” chirped Susan Ellen, the elder of the two children. “Goin’ home from school she asked the Grover boys, an’ Mary an’ Sarah Speed. An’ Mis’ Becker was real pleasant to us: she passed round some cake, an’ handed us sap sugar on one of her best plates, an’ we played games an’ sung some pieces too. Mis’ Becker thought we did real well. I can pick out most of a tune on the cabinet organ; teacher says she’ll give me lessons.”

“I want to know, dear!” exclaimed John Hilton.

“Yes, an’ we played Copenhagen, an’ took sides spellin’, an’ Katy beat everybody spellin’ there was there.”

Katy had not spoken, she was not so strong as her sister, and while Susan Ellen stood a step or two away addressing her eager little audience, Katy had seated herself close to her father on the doorstep. He put his arm around her shoulder, and drew her close to his side, where she stayed.

“Ain’t you got nothin’ to tell, daughter?” he asked, looking down fondly, and Katy gave a pleased little sigh for answer.

“Tell ’em what’s goin’ to be the last day o’ school, and about our trimmin’ the schoolhouse,” she said, and Susan Ellen gave the programme in most spirited fashion.

“’Twill be a great time,” said the mother, when she had finished. “I don’t see why folks want to go trapesin’ off to strange places when such things is happenin’ right about ’em.” But the children did not observe her mysterious air. “Come, you must step yourselves right to bed.”

They all went into the dark, warm house, the bright moon shone upon it steadily all night, and the lilac flowers were shaken by no breath of wind until the early dawn.

II

The Hiltons always waked early. So did their neighbours, the crows and song-sparrows and robins, the light-footed foxes and squirrels in the woods. When John Hilton waked, before five o’clock, an hour later than usual because he had sat up so late, he opened the house door and came out into the yard,